


Like Heat

by scyther



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Lance (Voltron), Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Fuck Or Die, Humor, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Marathon Sex, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Sex Positions, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Sex Pollen, Shower Sex, bc the boys think they're subtle but they are Not, but that's being extra cautious, ill probably reread this to edit when im less high but for now.... here go, more kinds of sex idk, pidge is not involved in anything except her own self interests, shes Tired with a capital t ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 20:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14961845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scyther/pseuds/scyther
Summary: What a cliché it is—Lance, getting an undiluted dose of alien brand Viagra, Keith getting pulled along for the ride, and poor, innocent Pidge, having to bear witness to whatever inane tomfoolery they've found themselves knee-deep in this time.





	Like Heat

**Author's Note:**

> status update: still no beta, nobody willing to yell at me and keep me on track and talk through my ideas. i tell ya, these conditions i've gotta live through..... horrific. shout out to emily & allison & sarah... who yelled at me when no one else would *wipes away tear*
> 
> this is set... idk maybe after keith comes back? i still haven't watched season six, so this is very likely not canon compliant. basically pretend we're back in season two like a few years down the road, shiro and keith still present and accounted for.
> 
> also, i've decided that i hate the word quiznak (quiznack?) and will instead opt to let anyone and everyone say fuck. now help me down off this soapbox

It's simple enough in theory—Hunk and Shiro will distract the indiscriminately hostile foreign invaders (no, Keith doesn't know what they're called; new fleets pop up more often these quintents than Keith washes his hair), while Pidge, Lance, and Keith search a nearby cave for some Artifact of Nebulous Importance. Or rather, Pidge searches the cave while Lance and Keith keep watch.

But, as always with them, something goes wrong, when Pidge gets caught up in the firestorm and can't break away. That in itself wouldn't be so sour if Keith could remember the damn protocol for plan b—why the _fuck_ can't he remember?—or if Blue wasn't waiting outside of the cave as Keith arrives, a sure sign that Lance forged ahead on his own.

Sourer still, Lance doesn't come back.

“You good?” Keith shouts into the haze of dissipating fog and space rock, loud enough that he struggles to press the sound out of his throat. Something touches down behind him—it's Yellow, and Keith breathes a sigh of relief. “Lance, you okay?”

In retrospect, it probably isn’t necessary to yell; everyone’s been coming in loud and clear over the com, and as far as he can tell no one has been booted. But that’s just one more reason for concern, since it means Lance isn’t talking for once.

Hunk, at the entrance, backlit in the flashing lights from the battle outside, looks frantic. “Keith, we gotta go!”

“Lance didn’t make it!” He argues, knowing that will be enough to convince Hunk. He’s not disappointed: Hunk instantly makes the transition from concerned to crisis-cool.

“Is he still—?” Hunk doesn’t finish the sentence, most likely he doesn’t want to say some variation of “in the cave—dead?” into Keith’s already horrified expression. The two of them peer back along the cavern, taunting them with its inky darkness, the anxiety of the moment framed by the distant crash of metal.

Suddenly Pidge’s voice is in their ears: “I’ve got him on the radar; he’s on the move. Shiro and I can’t hold off much longer, guys.”

It’s not a hint so much as a command (though for Pidge, it’s downright subtle), but Keith’s not leaving. Not until Lance is by his side. "C’mon, Lance, _c'mon_ ,” he murmurs under his breath, willing the fog to clear, his eyes to miraculously adjust,  _anything._

Hunk moves to stand at Keith’s side, but Keith can’t bring himself to look at his yellow-suited friend. He swallows, feeling his throat close around the heart beating away beneath his chin.

“Guys,” Pidge again, more distraught than before— “you’ve gotta get the fuck out of there, there’s something coming—“

She keeps talking, but her voice is drowned out by three things happening all at once: Hunk, reaching forward to grip Keith’s arm, Keith, bending his knees, prepared to fight anyone who tries to make him leave, and Lance, whipping around the shelf of rock into view, moving at such a tilt that he looks like Scooby Doo fleeing the monster of the week.

“Go go go _go go go go!_ ” Lance shouts, and then they’re all sprinting, racing to the exit, and just as they simultaneously cross the threshold, the ground beneath their feet burns blindingly bright.

Lance, Keith, and Hunk eat dirt in a series of _thuds_ , ending in a row on their stomachs, panting as the debris settles around them.

Keith is the first to push himself up, with his friends quick to follow. Luckily they all seem unharmed, though Lance’s hair and shoulders shimmer with the blue dust of the cavern.

“You made it, Buddy!” Hunk says with glee, scooping up the blue paladin and crushing him to his chest. “For a second there I wasn’t sure you were gonna pull through!”

When Lance pulls away he seeks out Keith — who smiles, relieved, as Lance asks, “You okay?”

“Me? It should be me asking if _you're_  okay.” The words come out with a glare undercut by the sheer nausea of relief.

Lance’s grin is just as bright as the light that just bowled them over, and he untucks a vaguely spherical metal object from his arm.

“You bet your sweet ass I am!” he says. He holds it up so they can see his spoils—the artifact they’d come to collect.

Hunk and Keith share a glance, and, in a concerted motion that smacks of practice, slap him upside his head.

—

By the time the team breaks from their final debriefing the strangely bright alien sun has set, and the interior of the castle-ship is dark and still.

Keith slips into the kitchen to pile up an extra plate of space goo for Lance, who has retreated to his room to sleep off all that ‘near death experience’ he just… experienced.

Keith side-steps Hunk, standing near the doorway with his face proclaiming I Know Whose Room You’re Going To and trying to hide his not-so-subtle approval. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than stand there and act like he doesn’t know things he clearly knows?

Nevertheless, Keith escapes the kitchen without incident. From there he makes his way down the hall, willing his footsteps to soften as he passes by Pidge’s door, Lance on his mind.

The close call issue isn’t as pressing as one might suspect—they’re paladins, after all, and they eat close calls for breakfast—but the aftermath… now that’s a little concerning. See, rather than taking a precautionary dip in a healing pod, Lance opted to return to his room after being excused from the post-op debriefing.

And sure, rest makes for better medicine than doing nothing at all. But one could say that Keith is… concerned, specifically that Lance wouldn’t choose the clearly superior option (that is to say, the one that involved _not_  dying of internal bleeding or other hidden ailments).

So suffice to say he’s a bit surprised when he steps into the dimly-lit space of Lance’s room, and a pair of lips fiercely presses against his own.

“Mmm, there you are,” Lance purrs, voice husky and low and gripping Keith _just right_  in the low part of his belly. He rolls his body up along Keith’s, slotting against him so slow and so lithe that Keith almost forgets that he has to get rid of this stupid… what was it again? Oh yeah, food—he barely manages to drop the plate on top of Lance’s dresser before his fervent boyfriend presses his lips, and his tongue—oh _god_ , yep, that’s his tongue—right beneath the curve of his jaw.

With the burdensome space goo gone from his hands, Keith is free to mold himself around the parts of Lance that have come crashing into him. And then their legs, hands, arms are intertwined, the taller Lance’s spine curved over him so it feels like he’s wrapped around Keith from every angle.

“Lance?” he gasps, though the sound doesn’t travel well through his boyfriend's persistent mouth. It’s not like this is unwelcome, god, it’s so very welcome, especially when said boyfriend draws away and their eyes meet, heavy-lidded and wild. Then he refocuses, lower on Keith’s face, and dives back in with a grin that makes Keith shiver with its pure debauchery—fuck, wait—

Keith manages to find a bit of leverage by snaking his arm up to Lance's chest, pushes to gain a few blessed centimeters of space between them. Their mouths part with the wet slurp of tongues and suction. A string of saliva stretches between them in the aftermath.

"Wanna stop?" Lance says, lascivious expression never faltering. He already knows the answer, if the heady confidence of his voice and the hands cupping Keith's hips are any indication.

Keith tries to stamp down the heat rising from his cheeks. It's probably a futile effort. "No, I'm just..." Wait, what was the reason he needed them to stop, again? Oh, yeah, mission gone wrong, potential injuries— “A-aren’t you hurt?”

Lance doesn’t miss a beat; he tilts his head and inches just the tiniest bit forward. “Do I look hurt?” he asks, eyebrow raised, grin persistent. He doesn’t, not really. But jumping Keith the instant he sees him? Shoving him against the door like he’s in heat? Not exactly normal behavior either.

As though he can read Keith’s mind, Lance barks a laugh. “I’m _fine._ ” He puts more space between them, but not too much—their limbs are far too tangled to pull apart that easily. “Starting to feel kinda dumb, though.”

Later, Keith will look back on this moment and tell himself that he thought long and hard before succumbing to Lance’s advances, instead of the mere handful of ticks that was… probably more accurate. Either way it ends just the same, with him reeling Lance back in with the ease he would his bayard, hands framing Lance’s face and Lance’s body framing his.

The concern that niggles in the back of Keith’s mind doesn’t fade away completely, but is certainly washed out by the blood ringing between his ears. Keith seeks his reprieve there; in Lance’s lips parting, in the languid slide of their tongues. He vastly prefers this Lance, the one crashing forward like waves in want of a shore, than the sheepish one of moments before.

Lance’s hand burns hot, seems to sizzle against Keith's back as it slips beneath his shirt. Keith’s head falls back to the door, gasping, as lips trail down his neck, collarbone, chest—newly bared. Lance shoves Keith's shirt to just beneath his armpits, holds it there with his left hand as he ventures ever lower.

Keith loves to watch Lance—that much is undeniable—but doing so now requires that he crane his neck and peer down the length of his own body, which is odd, to say the least. By contrast Lance is… shamelessly enthusiastic, keeping eye contact all the while mouthing a circular route around Keith’s bellybutton.

This is the point where Keith begins to feel a bit out of place, in the sense that he’s aware of his arms lifted awkwardly at his sides, and how he must look like all chin and nose from down where Lance is.

Not that his boyfriend’s teeth grazing the skin of his abdomen—not to mention the thumb pressing lightly against his nipple—isn’t enough to keep Keith’s attention, but he has this tendency to, as Lance likes to put it, ‘get all up in his headspace.’

Suddenly Lance loops his fingers in Keith’s jeans, which he belatedly realizes have become far too tight, and pops up to standing. He leans back in until they’re a breath apart, effortless as ever, and whispers lowly, “Bed?”

‘Yes,’ Keith wants to say, but the word won’t come, trapped beneath some thick, amorphous feeling pooled in his throat. He nods instead, tightening his grip on his boyfriend’s wrists.

Lance’s grin widens, and it's dangerous. “Cat got your tongue, baby?” he asks.

Keith would be more insulted if Lance didn’t sound every bit as affected as he felt. And maybe it’s just that he’s easy to figure out, or maybe Lance has some mind-reading ability that tells him exactly what Keith needs to hear. Because the teasing? It makes him feel a bit less… overwhelmed. “Is the cat s’posed to be you? Because if so the cat looks like he needs to take a breather from some minor light petting.”

“Fuck you too, sweetheart,” Lance says. But his grin is more subdued now, nearly fond, as he comes in for another kiss.

They stumble over one another and the miscellaneous personal effects scattered across the floor, unwilling to part even for the short trip to Lance’s bed. And then comes the issue of clothing—Lance seemingly under the impression that he can pry off his shirt without extracting his tongue from Keith’s mouth (eventually he gives up and lets it hang loosely around his neck). As usual, things do end up working out; in the scant seconds after Lance’s ass drops to the edge of the bed, Keith manages to strip both of their shirts.

Lance gets him around the knees, urging him down, so Keith moves to straddle his lap. He loves feeling high up like this, especially since his boyfriend usually towers over him (and flaunts this fact). He smiles down at Lance, who eagerly matches the intensity of his kiss, cupping his slim neck with his hands and tracing his fingers along the short little hairs there.

Lance, for his part, doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of the newly accessible skin on pretty much every angle of Keith’s torso. And the too-gentle strokes Lance makes down his spine, over his hips, just above where his jeans start, definitely _don't_  make Keith's skin prickle with goosebumps.

They remain like that for a while, the sounds of sloppy, languid kisses competing only with their soft gasps for air. Keith allows himself a moment of relief—Lance, who had been so uncharacteristically frantic not long before, seems content to pump the brakes.

The only push the self-proclaimed sharpshooter gives is to hook his hands around Keith’s backside, cupping his ass and pulling until they are pressed together from chest to pelvis. But try as he might, Keith can’t seem to find the wherewithal to care; not now that he’s essentially sitting on Lance’s hipbones, all too aware of how uncomfortable his pants have become, and how a single involuntary roll of his hips makes it clear that Lance is right there with him.

Then Lance’s hands are in his back pockets, squeezing just right, and Keith just can’t take it anymore. He finds himself grinding down, hard and unforgiving where Lance comes up to meet him. The note of pleasure hits pure and hot in his belly and around his neck, and it’s like he’s been wound into motion that he can’t stop.

“Unbutton. Now,” he groans into Lance’s neck, where he clings shamelessly. But Lance doesn’t tease him like he expects, choosing instead to comply with vigor, fingers grappling at the damn button of his jeans while Keith grips at his shoulders even tighter. And then the button snaps undone and he’s finally, blessedly free—he bestows his gratefulness upon his boyfriend in the form of kisses that are, for lack of a better term, randy as fuck.

About the same time as Lance’s hand finds its way down the back of his pants, where it quickly resumes its previous ministrations minus a layer of denim, Keith loses track of the last of his faculties. He will forever deny the groan that comes from his mouth, and the way his hips roll and buck of their own accord. Lance, infuriatingly pleased with this reaction, falls back onto the elbow of his free hand so Keith has no choice but to follow.

They fall in a tangle of limbs to the respite of Lance’s sheets, Keith sprawled above him, their faces close enough that they can feel one another’s breath.

“Can these come off now?” Lance asks. At some point both of his hands have snuck their way inside Keith’s jeans. Keith bites back a moan then, because Lance squeezes both cheeks firmly, rolling the flesh in his palms and pulling the cheeks apart lewdly.

“Mmm,” Keith responds, mostly because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

Together they shuck off Keith’s cursed denim and boxers and move onto Lance, whose jeans had suspiciously been undone since before Keith entered the room. In the end, they only make it halfway down his thighs before Keith can’t take it anymore; he pushes Lance onto his back and mounts him again, sighing in pleasure when their hips are finally aligned, exactly where he wants them to be.

Lance, always looking for a button to push, folds both hands behind his head like the smug bastard he is. “That’s a good look on you, babe—naked and riding me. Should try it more often.”

Keith rolls his eyes, and though he’s tempted to ignore the comment—clearly there are more important things happening right now, note the super hot frotting action in progress—he can’t bite back the, “Maybe I will.”

Lance’s cackle shakes the bed. Despite himself, Keith grins right back, just as he aims a thrust down and forward at an angle he knows from experience makes Lance’s toes curl. Every. Time.

And of course he’s successful, and of course Lance is forced to abandon his self-satisfied posture in favor of gripping Keith’s thighs so tightly that his fingers form dents in the skin.

And Keith is in for it now. He can’t stop, partly because it feels so good, but at least a little because Lance is physically _rocking_  him with his hands. The boyfriend beneath him is certainly a sight to behold: cheeks, neck, and chest blotted red with strain, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

So Keith stops holding back, and it’s definitely for his own sake, and not Lance’s, for sure, 100%. He leans down low over his reddened and wrecked boyfriend, so close that their chests brush with every few thrusts, and kisses him firmly, stealing that lip so he can take his turn with it.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Lance mumbles, and a shudder runs over his body that cascades into Keith like an avalanche.

Wait. Hold it a tick.

“Did you-?” Keith asks, baffled, once Lance gasps beneath him like his first breath of air after a long swim. He’s not entirely certain, but there’s a wet spot on the front of Lance's underwear that seems like confirmation—Lance, coming before Keith had even gotten in his briefs? Unprecedented.

But Lance doesn’t look embarrassed or embarrassingly blissed out, so Keith isn’t entirely positive that he did, in fact, come. In the midst of Keith’s confusion, Lance knits his brows, trails his hand up and around the thigh it was previously squeezing, and wraps it around Keith’s (still very erect) cock.

“Did I what?” Lance asks, and though the effect is somewhat lost with the breathlessness of his voice, he sure makes up for it when he tilts his hips up and thrusts up into Keith. And, y’know how Keith had—not ticks ago—implied his dick was the only erect one in this equation? Turns out he made a serious miscalculation along the way.

Maybe, in retrospect, that should’ve been the first sign, that set warning bells blazing in Keith’s mind. But it’s hard to really be all that concerned about your boyfriend’s clearly unusual behavior when he’s thumbing your cockhead in time with the slow, smooth rolls of his hips, all while grinning up at you sexily. So, I don’t know about you, but I for one will cut Keith just a centimeter of slack.

Eventually the lube find's its way into Keith’s possession—he can’t explain, really, he’s too busy kissing his fine-ass boyfriend—and he doesn’t hesitate to start coating his hands in the stuff. He makes a big show of refusing to let Lance help—“Not happening, you put the ‘e’ in excess, doll”—but after a remarkably persuasive rebuttal—“What, you scared I’ll make you cry tears of pleasure again, baby?”—things wind up as they often do: Keith on his hands and knees, making absolutely mortifying noises into a pillow as he ruts backward onto Lance’s hand.

He must look ridiculous with his ass in the air and lube coating the backs of his thighs, grasping loosely at his boyfriend below. Lance is on his back, mouth pressed into Keith’s shoulder, where he murmurs unintelligible encouragements, and that’s enough to keep Keith pushing through the embarrassment. It’s pretty unfair how good Lance is with his hands, which is nothing to say about what he can do with his mouth—

Keith remembers with a start that he had a goal here, all along, and that goal was not to come on Lance’s fingers. So, finally, with all the strength he can muster, Keith leans back, effectively dodging out of Lance’s reach. He makes quick work of Lance’s remaining clothing and takes his position seated atop the throne that is the cradle of Lance’s hips.

And then the most important part; watching Lance’s cross-eyed expression as he's maneuvered inside. The preparation, as usual, if perhaps a bit gratuitous, ends up so effective that Keith can settle back with next to no resistance. And _mmff_ , that wet glide, the feeling of fullness. They both release groans of desperation as Keith tests out the range of his hips, and—when satisfied—dives back down to kiss his boyfriend’s adorable face.

Said boyfriend scrabbles a bit, and thinking he’s been given the go-ahead to decide the pace, begins to push his hips up while pulling Keith’s hips down with clumsy hands. But the thing is, Keith doesn’t think he’s earned it, so he sits back, essentially pinning Lance down with his weight.

Lance pouts—to be expected—but after knowing him for so long, Keith has developed partial immunity. “Who’s on top, babe?” He asks, which really doesn’t mean anything except ‘knock it off or I’ll keep teasing you relentlessly.’

Lance doesn’t let up just yet. “Fine, then. I’ll just lie here. Like a lump. A sex toy. Your sexy sexy sex toy.”

It’s Keith’s turn to grin at that; he gives a pointed roll of his hips, mostly just to spite Lance, who yelps and grapples at Keith’s hipbones. “Pretty whiny sex toy,” Keith teases.

Only when Lance opens his mouth to complain some more does Keith proceed with the actual… y’know, proceedings. He starts out slowly, but not so slowly that he gets winded during the beginning stretch, trying to stifle the blush that rises as Lance reaches for his hands, as he takes them.

This isn’t the first time they’ve done this together—not even close—but Keith is always surprising himself with how _good it is_ , how easy it is to fall into the rhythm of push-and-pull with Lance.

But now isn’t the time to be thinking stupidly sappy things about his incredible relationship, now is the time to be facing that ledge that has just come into view in the distance, to race toward it without inhibition. And he’s pretty sure that he knows a shortcut.

He tilts his hips just so, and sure enough—there it is—the perfect angle. It’s something he did of his own volition, but the electricity that pulses through his belly isn’t something you can exactly become inured to. Keith belts out a cry, drops onto his hands, and somehow finds a way to kiss Lance fiercely, even through his boyfriend’s moans.

“Y-you gotta warn me before you do that,” Lance gasps, pressing kisses to Keith’s cheek, the curve of his jaw, his earlobe. “You get all tight like… fuck.”

Emphasizing the point are Lance’s hands, which he uses to trace along where they’re still connected, where it’s wet and yielding and sensitive.

Keith rests his forehead into the crook of Lance’s neck and takes a moment to catch his breath. “I think it’s safe to assume, if I’m gonna be on top… that’s gonna happen.”

“Not gonna hear me complaining,” Lance says. His voice is lower than usual, gruffer than usual, and that in itself is basically enough to propel Keith upright. He grins down at Lance, who doesn’t look too happy to have his boyfriend’s lips move farther away, but does look like he’s ver happy about what’s to come.

And so they continue, Keith leaning back against Lance’s bent legs, using them as leverage to keep his own hips moving. He finds that perfect angle again within moments, though this time he steels himself so he doesn’t hurtle forward. He allows Lance to place one hand on the curve of his thigh, and the other on Keith’s cock, where he begins to stroke, strong and sure, in time with the pace Keith has set.

At some point Keith’s hips begin to quicken without his consent, and he loses the mindset which enabled him to tease Lance in the first place, much less the bodily control with which to do it. And once he has reached that point, it quickly becomes a race to the finish, with nothing in the world more important than chasing that line on the horizon.

So Keith urges his hips ever faster, and at last allows Lance to push back.

“Close, close,” he murmurs, grasping for Lance’s hands and just barely missing, settling instead for the thinnest part of his wrist. Lance nods frantically, obliging by pressing his own hips up just that modicum harder, making Keith groan with each slow drag up, inside, against him.

Finally, gratefully, he comes, feeling his entire body tighten impossibly, then become light as air. He continues to move for the sake of Lance below him, but he’s not far behind—it takes only a few languid twists before he’s coming inside Keith with a long shuddering groan.

It’s only after this that Keith allows his body to give out, collapsing boneless against his boyfriends sweaty chest. Keith slips into that blue-cotton mist that always follows his orgasms, ignorant to the world and knowing only pleasure and comfort. With any luck, he’ll get to bask in this place until it fades, and he has to return to extract Lance from his sticky ass and clean up.

But it’s that thought—the one about Lance inside him—that pulls him prematurely from his pleasant reverie. Because Lance, who literally _just came_ , who Keith is pretty sure came once before that only a few dobashes ago, is very much still hard.

Keith pushes himself up instantly, wincing a bit at the twinge where they’re still connected, and yep, definitely still hard. Lance arches up like a bow pulled taut, moaning like something you’d pull up on the internet late at night with the volume turned down way low. Keith is, it’s plain to say, not amused.

“Lance, what the fuck,” he says. The boy isn’t getting out of this one without some sort of explanation, even if the edges of Keith’s vision are still fuzzy and blue.

Lance looks like he’s struggling for a very similar reason, fighting against the hand Keith is using to hold down his hips. “God, quiznak, Keith, just—“

Keith gets fed up with the whole thing real quick, so he lifts off Lance with an audible squelch, watching the blue paladin’s face contort with disappointment. Luckily for his sake, he doesn’t put up much of a fight other than that, choosing instead to pout up at Keith like a lonely, horny kitten.

“You’re still hard.” Keith is just kind of at a loss here. “You came twice and you’re still hard.”

Lance lets out a gasp that is downright pornographic, still writhing in the sheets like one of Keith’s wet dreams. “Three,” he chokes out, voice so mangled that Keith doesn’t really understand what he means at first. But then—

“Three times, Lance? Three times!?” Keith demands. Lance, whose blush of exertion has already spread from his face down to his chest, raises his eyebrows and manages a guilty grin.

“It’s out of control tonight, baby,” he says, gesturing down his abdomen to his obscenely perky dick. “Ever since we got back—maybe even a little earlier than that—and it’s like it’s calling to me!”

“Almost… like you’re being compelled to take care of it?” Keith says dryly, watching as Lance’s brows knit together in thought.

“Hold it!” Lance yelps. He props himself up on an arm, as if his epiphany necessitates a more vertical position. “Yeah, it’s kind of..,” he looks down at his pelvis and then up at Keith, his eyes wide, “exactly like that.”

Keith shakes his head, pressing hard into his temples with his thumb and middle finger. He really can’t believe this is happening. “So you came to your room not because you were feeling bad, but because you were—“

“Feeling _good_.” Lance waggles his eyebrows, clearly unable to restrain himself even mid-crisis. Keith sighs, unamused, and puts his head back where it belongs—in his hands. “I was thinking of you, if it helps?”

At last, Keith lifts to meet Lance’s gaze, which is as earnest as it is sheepish. He rises to his knees so he can rest his forehead against Lance’s. “It doesn’t. But I appreciate the effort.”

—

On principle, Lance does his best to avoid getting himself all caught up in the existential shit, like why certain things tend to happen to him, and why he’s often the one getting tangled in his own special web of fuck-up. He usually ends up spending more time thinking about how he doesn’t think about these things, than actually thinking about them in the first place. Which usually ends in Lance reassuring himself—putting logic to it just stifles the creativity he has on demand, and really, what can he add to Voltron that helps more than his creativity has?

So when the team touches down on the castle-ship, and the sweeping intensity of battle has long faded from the air, Lance doesn’t blame himself when the heat in his cheeks and the giddy high fails to subside.

No, instead of dwelling on his concern, he sidesteps the mention of dinner, winks boldly at his boyfriend—whose combination glare and blush only makes Lance’s blood boil that much hotter—and bolts back to his room at a speed he hopes isn’t too suspicious (it is).

  
Almost as soon as the door slides closed behind him, he unzips his jeans with shaky hands and begins to make quick work of himself. And it feels good, so good, almost better than usual, definitely more frantic, like whatever climax he usually makes his way toward is hurtling right back at him.

But then he comes—or at least he thinks he does. His eyes roll back in his head; he’s never felt anything quite like this, quite this right or bright in his belly, or anything that feels so painfully unsatisfying. At that point it becomes clear that something’s definitely not right, not just with his dick, but with his head. He feels blurry yet hyperaware, heart pounding in his chest and still-hard cock throbbing in his loosely clenched fist.

Without any extra input from his brain, he spits into his hand and starts to jerk again, rougher and firmer than before, feeling exhausted and strung-out but like he’s getting no closer to where he needs to go.

“What the fuck,” he moans, because he can’t stop. No, no, he definitely can’t stop. Stopping would be worse. Stopping would definitely not be good.

He manages to come once more, and his erection continues to taunt him. There’s no chance that coming yet again is going to improve the situation, mostly because he doesn’t think that’s even an option. At this rate he doesn’t see any glimmer of the finish line that could lie over the horizon, not even a hint.

So when Lance hears Keith’s footsteps approaching, he feels a foreboding mixture of relief and dread. The thought of Keith’s hands on him is enough to somehow get his blood pumping even faster, but he’s not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

They fuck. He tells Keith he’s come three times instead of four.

After round one, Lance, of course, remains just as revved as before if twice as concerned, though Keith certainly has him beat in that category.

“Tell me again what happened,” Keith says from where he kneels, parting Lance’s thighs. He pauses with his lips a hair’s breadth from the head of Lance’s cock, which is an infuriating tease. Keith’s words settle into Lance’s one-track mind long after the fact, but the point is that they do, eventually, settle.

Keith mouths lightly at the tip. Lance mewls. “What... happened…?”

“On the mission,” Keith clarifies, eyebrows knit tightly, studious. He watches with singleminded intensity the reaction of each action, dispassionate like a scientist taking field notes. It’s driving Lance _crazy_. “You’re sure you didn’t touch anything? Anything you weren’t supposed to?”

“The mission…,” Lance says. The mission? That was so long ago. Must be… years at this point. There’s no way Lance can remember that far back. And doesn’t Keith understand that that’s not what matters right now?

“C’mon Lance, focus, this is kind of important.” It doesn’t _feel_  important, not with Keith’s tongue where it is, with his hands where they are.

Important. Important. Right… the artifact. The mission. Lance remembers. He doesn’t remember clearly, but he remembers. He was searching for something. Something powerful, and important. Something… metallic blue?

“I remember, I did it. I got the thing,” he says. It’s a small achievement, but Keith rewards him anyway by licking along the vein curved around the underside.

“Good, that’s good,” Keith praises, and even in this state Lance doesn’t miss the cheeky smile that graces his lips. “But do you remember anything else? You were gone an awful long time for someone just looking for one artifact.” Yeah, well Keith looks awful into his oral work for someone who’s pumping—hah, pumping—Lance for information.

“You sure? You touched nothing else?” Keith tacks on in the face of Lance’s silence. Well, silence in the sense that he’s really not saying anything particularly coherent. Because the thing is, Lance _isn't_  sure.

“Ugh, I don’t remember, okay?” Lance says, pushing out more than a little frustration with the words. “It was—there was—I was kinda in a hurry. You know, so I wouldn’t die?”

And almost as soon as he’s said this small and defensive piece, a memory jolts to the forefront. Lance jerks and groans, and Keith looks up at him expectantly. “What?”

“I… fuck, I had to break the sigil,” Lance finally says.

“What!?” Keith’s hands and mouth are too far from where they need to be now. Lance protests with a whine; he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Look, it was the only way, okay?” There is no guarantee that Lance will be able to explain himself under the current circumstances. “Can you..?” he says, defaulting to puppy dog eyes as he gestures to where he is being neglected.

Keith ignores the request, choosing instead to glare up at his boyfriend and bestow his cruel punishment in both words and non-action. “Lance, Coran _told_  us not to set it off.”

“No,” Lance insists, reaching down to take matters into his own hands, and pouting when Keith slaps his hand away. “No, he told us in case of emergency Pidge could help us unlock it, but if you remember she was kind of occupied at that point? No way we would’ve made it in time, and—just getting it out first—don’t you lecture _me_  about not endangering myself for a mission.”

Keith begrudgingly seems to accept the reasoning. Lance draws his thumb over Keith’s right cheekbone, purring when Keith covers his hand with his own.

“Anyway, I didn’t _touch_  it. I’m not that dumb.” Keith raises an eyebrow. “Okay, I would totally have touched it, but it didn’t even give me the chance. All I did was stand in front of it and it got all glow-y. Then it opened.” Lance leaves out the part about how he had felt something as the sigil faded away, but the sounds of the team shouting his name had forced him to put that on the back-burner. Any mention of ‘feelings' would only serve to make Keith that much more panicked, especially since there is almost certainly nothing he can do to help Lance at this point in time.

But Keith still doesn’t look satisfied with the intel he’s been given. Lance lets out a long, labored sigh. “Look, okay, if this… keeps up, we can tell someone. It’s not like not like..,” he gestures to the juncture of his thighs, "is killing me. Maybe it’ll wear off.”

Ultimately, it doesn’t really matter how many ways Keith can distort his face to emphasize his displeasure, because what Lance's point isn't _untrue._  It’s a bit uncomfortable, sure, but this isn’t like, fuck-or-die tier alien trickery. This is fuck-or-be-sad.

It takes only a bit more coaxing to convince Keith that this is a matter of—what’s the opposite of urgency? Anyway, it’s the mindset that Lance eventually manages to persuade Keith into, and all that really matters is that he gets right back to the good kind of work.

“Yeah. Still weird,” Keith says when Lance falls back and bounces atop the mattress, and certain other parts of him bounce too.

Lance, who apparently requires no time for recovery and is very excited to test this, flips to his front, so he’s on his knees with his ass high, chest low. He grins, unashamed, at Keith, wriggling his ass so there’s no question where his boyfriend’s attention should go.

“Is _this_  weird?” Lance asks, only spurred on by Keith’s predictable eye roll.

Maybe Lance should be a teensy bit more concerned with his situation. It wouldn’t be the first time some subtle fuck-up came back to bite him in the ass. And yet—

Keith, who has since pulled himself onto the mattress where Lance can’t see, grips his ass cheeks so firmly that it makes a breathy little noise escape from Lance’s throat.

So yeah, Lance is probably gonna have a tough time worrying about his tropeful situation.

—-

The pair forges ahead, and because they’re both of the resourceful sort that won't let a fortuitous circumstance pass unnoticed, they take advantage.

Lance comes. Over and over and over. He comes and he comes, but the desire, the singleminded fervor that spurs him onward—go, go, go, so close, _fuck_  yeah—thats what really comes.

In waves, to be precise, tides that reel him into Keith, gasping like he can’t breathe except through a mouth not his own, and then drag him back into the surf, where he’s distant and despondent and so utterly tired. Either way he struggles to find purchase on solid ground.

But while Keith does his best to take care of him, he comes. Keith’s hands, rough and firm, his mouth soft, inside him so silken and slick that Lance wonders if he’s been lost for good, Keith so deep inside him he can feel his cock in his throat; these are the usual contenders. And when Keith collapses with reluctant exhaustion—he is, after all, only human(/Galra hybrid… how that factors in Lance isn’t gonna concern himself with), and unaided by mystical dick magic—Lance falls back on creativity to figure out where he can rub his dick.

Anywhere works, really, as long as there’s sufficient friction and enough space to build up a rhythm. So sandwiched by Keith’s ass cheeks? Nice. Along the unyielding slices of his hipbones, collarbones, ribs? In-fucking-credible. His armpit, the plane of his back, his slick, powerful upper thighs… Between Keith’s moans of approval, Lance loses track of what he has and hasn’t tried, and what’s lube and what… isn’t,

They fit into one evening (the exact varga count is really anyone’s guess) what they normally might over the course of several weeks. And he’s not complaining, because it’s fun and all, but somewhere in the distant shadow of Lance’s mind, there’s the recurring question of how long this could possibly continue. They do have, like, a universe to defend, or something.

At least, the thought is there until it’s not anymore, which this time is around when Keith’s hand wraps around both of their dicks, just tight enough that any thought that remained would’ve have to be a pretty pressing one.

—-

“Jesus, fuck!” Lance yelps, collapsing boneless onto his back. Keith joins him, only his ultimate resting place is Lance’s stomach, which is tacky with fresh come. At this point, it’s hard to care.

Keith’s left hand falls to Lance’s shoulder, and his thumb strokes fondly at the bronze skin there.

“I think it might be time, babe,” Keith says, willing his gaze to meet Lance’s and finding that his neck is devoid of even that much energy. “Time to talk to someone?”

“Mmm, one more time,” Lance protests, voice heavy and dampened and woven like the fabric of a washcloth. He cuddles Keith’s body in order to roll them both over, until it’s Keith on his back, with Lance's head nestled on his shoulder, their legs intertwined.

“The first time you said that, if I recall correctly, was a few more than several ‘times’ ago.” Keith levels Lance with a look of modeled judgment.

And of course, Lance has to quip: “That’s because I didn’t mean it then.”

A laugh bubbles out of Keith’s chest before he has time to shove it back down. “Wow, past you really had me fooled.” He angles his fond smile right towards Lance’s own. Lance kisses him ever-so-softly, the kind of kiss so drowned in affection that it makes Keith’s heart surge in kind.

When the moment is over, Lance stretches his arms over the headboard and lets out a groan that sounds conspicuously sexual.

“So. Shower?”

—

The process of showering falls, well, pretty much exactly in line with what Keith has come to expect. They slip and slide under the stream of over-heated water, kissing and giggling and forgetting to rid themselves of their towels, which fall heavy and damp to their feet.

That is to say, Lance's hands coming alive, sly and slippery along the slope of Keith's backside; kisses thoroughly wet and languid below the relatively tepid spray of the faucet.

There's a certain sense of deviousness that coats the atmosphere, a rushed stillness that cuts even through the depth of Keith's exhaustion. The combined pressure of the water and Lance's touch and Lance's lips and the breath mingling between them presses every gauge to its maximum setting, lights him red-hot like the end of a poker. Or no—definitely something softer, something he could stay wrapped in forever if given the option. Lance kisses him too gently and touches him in inexplicable ways, only wrong because they’re just this side of too right.

Keith ends up facing the wall, chest wedged firmly against it by the weight of Lance, who’s breathing hotly while his teeth nibble around the shell of Keith’s ear.

“This good?” he asks. Keith doesn’t know whether it’s the words or the way Lance says them that flicks goosebumps across his shoulders. Keith nods, though his neck feels heavy, like the gears are jammed.

Lance doesn’t have to elaborate any further—Keith knows what he means. He angles his hips encouragingly, so Lance can grip and adjust until his dick slides into the barely-there gap between Keith’s thighs, just under his ass.

This isn’t the first time they’ve tried this position (hell, it isn’t even the first time _tonight_ ) but Keith can’t help but gasp a little as Lance slots into place. It’s unclear, really, where the appeal is, but it’s one of his favorites, supported on both sides, clean and long, Lance steadily losing his mind behind him.

It doesn’t take long for Lance to reach the end of the line—it’s not particularly short-lived, but more that Keith isn’t entirely present—and with both their hands fumbling on Keith’s cock and Lance murmuring hot, wordless nonsense, it doesn’t take him all that long to reach it either.

And when he does come, it’s into something so cozy and calm that Keith isn’t entirely sure if it’s actually over or not.

“Lance,” he hears his voice say, “think we should turn down the temp a bit.” His bones and muscles are jelly, and he proves it by beginning a slow slide down the wall the moment Lance pulls away.

“Whoa there, buddy,” Lance chuckles as he catches Keith under the armpits and hauls him around. Keith must not make a pretty picture, because Lance lets out a swear or three and surges to adjust the temperature knob.

It’s sweet, but Keith has to roll his eyes when Lance assumes even more of a bracing position, guiding him to sit at the bench along the opposite wall.

“Stooopp.” He bats away the Lance hands that have made their way out of Helpful territory and straight into Overprotective and Overwhelming.

“Stopping,” Lance laughs, even as he hovers. “You okay to move?”

Keith is fairly certain he’s not being propositioned again, despite how hard Lance _still_  is, but for some reason it feels like a good idea to play it like that anyway. “Mmm, back off, hot stuff,” he winds up saying. And okay, maybe Lance is right and he should be a little more concerned, because ‘saying’ is far more generous (not to mention less accurate) than ‘slurring.’

“I am thoroughly backed off, in case you haven’t noticed,” Lance responds. He probably makes some sort of gesture along with it that Keith is too spaced out to catch. “I am both as back and as off as can be. It’s kinda my specialty.”

Keith smirks up at him. “Juss so long as you know. I’m on my break.”

They’ve forgotten to turn off the water, Keith realizes, when the sound of the spray swallows up Lance’s chuckle. “Got it,” the blue paladin concedes, hands up in the universal gesture of innocent ignorance, “no funny stuff.”

“Good,” Keith says, curling up into Lance’s side. He’s thirsty for the instant contentment it brings. “You couldn’t keep up anyway.”

They sit like that for a while, Keith trying to catch his breath in the post-act haze, forehead heavy on Lance’s shoulder.

Time passes—could be ticks, could be vargas—but at last Keith lifts his head, sleepily blinking his boyfriend into view. Lance is adorable as usual, and fast asleep. His lower jaw hangs open and his head tilts awkwardly to one side, hair plastered haphazardly to his forehead, cheeks, and neck. Keith gives his nose a gentle finger-bump. Lance bursts awake, limbs flailing.

Lance asks how long they’ve been out. Keith shrugs. He looks down to confirm that, yep, Lance is still hard down there.

“Lance, maybe you should try the healing pod. I don’t think this curse is gonna die on its own.” Lance flinches, hard enough that his shock is unmistakable.

“Curse?” he asks, frantic. Keith raises an eyebrow. That’s what has him worked up?

“Uh, yeah. I thought we were past that?” Maybe the curse thing is affecting his brain too? “We definitely had this conversation.”

“No, no, I thought you meant I could just be having a reaction to—y’know, alien spores or whatever. But a curse!?” Keith has to sit up straight, examine Lance’s face just to be sure he’s being genuine.

“Well, yeah, Lance, alien spores shot out by the curse of whatever-it-is you touched…” The horror on Lance’s face might be funny if he wasn’t so… horrified. “Look, it might not be serious?” he offers, knowing it’s insufficient to quell whatever’s brewing in Lance’s mind.

It's not funny. It's not even a little funny. But Keith finds himself laughing anyway.

"So let me get this straight," he says into Lance's distraught face, "you weren't freaked by the thought of strange alien pollen playing Surgeon Simulator with your human biology, but a curse is where you draw the line?”

If Lance catches the fact that Keith is laughing at him, he gives no indication. He grapples at Keith's arm, eyes and mouth twisted into the picture of terror, which combined with his nakedness, wetness, and hardness, definitely isn't helping Keith get on his level of fear.

"It's different!" he yelps. His voice is high and strained. "The biology stuff we can fix, but this—man, this is super fucked up!”

Keith gapes wordlessly. He isn’t sure he’s quite following the source of Lance’s anxiety, but at least Lance isn’t pretending like everything’s normal anymore.  
“I agree, Lance, it is. But look, you’re okay. Everything’s going to be fine.” Lance’s frown deepens.

“Make up your mind already!” he says. He’s somehow managed an expression that is the exact halfway point between worry and petulance. “Aren’t you the one who’s been wigging out this whole time?”

Keith huffs, brushes off the requisite exasperation. “I haven’t been _wigging out_ ,” he insists, “I’ve been trying to help you.”

And all at once, Lance seems to let off a breath that contains his most pressing worries. “So you don’t think I’m going to die?”

“No, of course not,” Keith says, shoving at Lance’s shoulder playfully. Some of the color returns to Lance’s face.

“Sorry, I don’t know where that came from,” he says after a beat. “Probably this.”

Lance touches a finger to the head of his cock and uses it to press it down toward his thighs. When he lets go, it springs back with enough force that it smacks the skin of his lower belly with a loud thwack. The sight is so comical and absurd that a snort fights its way through Keith’s admittedly inadequate defenses.  
Their eyes meet, and for a long moment they hold their breath, lips tightening inward as they stubbornly try to repress what’s coming. Of course, they fail.

And they laugh, naked in the showers of the castle-ship, accompanied by the steady spout of water and the insistent patter as it falls to the floor. Through his laughter, Keith takes Lance’s hand in his own and gives it a squeeze.

—

“So… do you think you can help?” Keith asks. He feels a little sheepish, but he’s sure it’s nothing compared to how Lance, a foot to his right and the color of Keith’s lion, is feeling at the moment.

Pidge hums, studying them over the top of her glasses. She’s seated at her desk chair, which is currently rotated towards them, her expression obscured by the hand supporting her chin.

She had listened to the entirety of Keith’s—Lance’s—rambling story with quiet patience, but the current lack of response is… a bit anticlimactic.  
Finally she sits upright, kicking off the desk and pulling her feet up next to her.

"So you tried—“

“Yes.”

"Huh." Pidge says. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "And what about—"

"It's safe to say if it's physically possible, we've tried it," Keith sighs, his own face burning this time.

"Interesting." Pidge considers this impassively. She crosses her legs and arms, and possibly into an entire new mindset if the flash of her glasses is any indication. "Based on what you collected on site, it shouldn't be too difficult for me to figure something out.”

She reopens the computer atop her desk and begins to search for something. Lance deflates with relief, still pulling his shirt down to cover himself.

"H-how do we help?" he asks. Keith reaches out to rest his hand ever so lightly on Lance's hip.

Pidge pauses for a moment, bumps her glasses out of the way so she can pinch at the region of nose beneath them.

"I'm gonna need some space goo," she says, "and a Melttion moon diamond.”

Lance straightens in a split tick. He pounds his right fist into his left palm—a definitive  _a-ha!_

"I still have the one I won at game night last week!" he declares.

Pidge nods and points a finger at Lance. "That should work," she says, "if we hurry.”

As soon as Pidge returns to typing Keith and Lance are out the door. It's an odd couple of requests, but if it's Pidge requesting it…

—

"It's gotta be here somewhere," Lance insists. He’s digging through his dresser drawers like a man possessed, tossing the clothes every which way after feeling around for any objects they may be hiding.

Keith sets down the space goo and kneels beside him, intent on helping in a way that doesn’t necessarily involve digging through Lance’s clothing.

“Babe, it’s okay,” he says, running his fingers through his hair in a soothing gesture. Lance’s shoulders droop. “Pidge won’t let us down. You’re gonna be fine.”

“You say that…” Lance trails off, but he leans into Keith’s hand and closes his eyes.

Keith presses a kiss to Lance’s neck, just below where his fingers are doing their work. And another. “I do say that. And I believe it too.”

“Okay, you need to stop,” Lance tells him. Even as he does his head lulls back, luxuriating in Keith’s ministrations.

“Stop what?” Keith says innocently. He’s playing Lance’s game now, which is familiar but exciting from this side of the road. “This?” Keith presses his fingers, firm and sure, into the satisfying bundle of muscles in the valley of his clavicle, watches as Lance collapses into his arms.

“Mmm,” Lance says, the fight having drained from his body. “What’s another ten dobashes?”

He pulls Keith down for a deep, languorous kiss.

—

When the tiresome twosome return to her doorstep nearly a varga later, it is with disheveled hair and ruddy cheeks. The silk night top Lance wears is misaligned by two buttons, one more than during their first appearance.

Pidge’s eyes travel skyward. She prays to the makers of the universe for the strength to deal with this absolute nonsense just a little longer.

Wearily she stands, takes position before the door; knowing her luck, these bothersome bugbears will welcome themselves into her room sans barrier. Her body will have to play the role of barrier.

The door opens with a touch of Pidge’s finger. Lance, bouncing nervously from heel to heel, presents his offerings with a sheepish grin. Pidge receives them both with a nod.

“Yoink,” she says.  And then, in a smooth series of motions she will later pride herself on, she takes a single step back and allows her door to slide shut on their unsuspecting faces.

There’s commotion in the hallway, which is to be expected. While inputting the commands so their faces appear on the privacy screen to her right, Pidge allows herself a moment to savor the sweetness of it all. But though she’s a cruel and wicked genius, she’s not completely heartless.

“Quiznak, calm down,” she suggests kindly, through the intercom. It has the intended effect—both Lance’s wails and Keith’s complaints come to an abrupt halt. "Listen. Lance will be fine.”

Of course, this is met with a chorus of 'but-how-do-you-knows' and 'Pidge-open-the-doors'. Pidge sighs, feeling her feeble grip on patience slip. She's always gonna be the one who has to spell it out, isn't she?

"Christ. If you morons took a break from pawing at each other for five minutes and, I dunno, maybe payed attention during the initial briefing, you might've heard that this could happen.”

"What?" squeaks Lance. She sees his and Keith's mouths fall open. Boy, that's satisfying.

"It's not a curse, it's a side effect of the ivy that grows outside the cave," she explains. “Bioengineered to distract thieves and prevent them from escaping after getting all India Jones-y. It has a half-life of like. Two days tops.” She’s about to tell them more about the biological effects of the pollen, but they've already disappeared from the door monitor. Probably off to fuck again, Pidge's little prank long forgotten.

“The fucking worst,” she grumbles fondly, lifting the moon rock so it scatters rainbows around her room. It’s about damn time she got it back from Lance’s cheating ass. Like he had any use for it anyway.

Pidge laughs, and eats her space goo.

**Author's Note:**

> [t](http://spiritagay.tumblr.com)


End file.
